The Hag's Contract

Twenty-Two

Candabraxis worked at a feverish pitch throughout the morning. He began in the castle’s kitchens, coopting every spare child he could find … twenty-two in all, ranging in age from perhaps eight to thirteen or fourteen.

“This is a great magic,” he told them when he had gathered them all in the central courtyard. The other servants—their mothers and fathers, mostly—had seemed all too eager to get them out from underfoot. “When it is done, all of Alber will be protected from the Hag. But, to accomplish it, I will need your help.”

They looked at each other, shifting uncomfortably in the cold breeze. “How?” one of the older boys called. “What can we do? We know nothing of magic.”

“Ah!” Candabraxis said. “An excellent question. It shows you have a good mind, boy. How can you help? By keeping people away from the rune I will draw until I am finished with it!”

He jogged to his tower and picked up two of the jars he had set there earlier. Inside both were a mixture of peldane root and hog’s blood, which he would use to mark out the rune. Dipping a brush into the mixture, he began painting a huge line across the courtyard. This would be the nexus for the rune, the line that held it all together. As long as it was complete, no other wizard’s magic would be able to penetrate it, not even the Hag’s. This was the vision that had come to him in his fevered sleep.

“Watch and learn,” he breathed, speaking half to himself and half to the Hag. “Watch and fear the true power of a wizard!”

He began the second line, then the third, then a long sweeping arc that would extend all the way around the castle, incorporating its outer walls into the huge magical pattern.

In late afternoon, Evann rounded a grove of trees and came within sight of Alber. The city, set on the low hills, still lay an hour’s ride away, but the captain and his companions would sleep inside tonight.

He had pushed them hard to reach the city. The horses, exhausted, had begun to lag. Now everyone pulled up around him.

“Ride ahead and let Harlmut know we’ve returned, and successfully,” he said to Harrach. “Nothing must happen to our guest until King Graben is freed.”

“Aye, sir,” Harrach said. He spurred his horse and galloped ahead.

“So that is Alber,” Hawk said. “It’s smaller than I thought it would be.”

“Small, but fierce as a cornered wolf,” Evann said. “We can more than take care of ourselves, Hawk. And remember who rescued you … something your own people never managed.”

He smiled thinly. “Of course. Come, it’s nearing dinnertime. I wish to meet this regent of yours. And I’d love a cup of hot mulled ale….”

It was finally done.

From the roof of his tower, Candabraxis surveyed the rune he had drawn around and through Castle Graben. He was awed. He wondered again at the forces that had driven him to create it. It was as though divine inspiration had guided his hand through the process.

Slowly he turned, following the graceful sweep of every line, the intricate way in which the outer walls worked themselves into the total pattern, becoming an integral part of the rune.

Only one step remained: casting the actual spell that would energize the rune and make Castle Graben safe for the first time since he had arrived. It was the last part, and the smallest, but hardly the easiest.

Spreading his arms and closing his eyes, Candabraxis summoned the powers within himself. This was the difference between a truly great wizard and a novice. With enough schooling and the right teacher, anyone could learn rudimentary control over the forces of magic. A true wizard, though, could reach down to the core of his being, then beyond, into the primal force of the world itself, the wellspring from which all true magic flowed. He had read a hundred different books that described the process. Some said it resembled the turning of a key. Others compared it to breaking through a dam and letting the onrushing flood sweep the mage before it, all the while steering it toward his goal.

Candabraxis found it like none of those. He envisioned a river of light running through the world. With his sheer force of will, he could change its course, ripping it from its bed and turning it loose in any direction he chose, to any task he needed done. He felt it pouring through him now, tingling in his veins and arteries, coursing through his heart.

“Now!” he cried.

The light burst forth from him, channeling into the rune, creating a barrier that not even the Hag would be able to penetrate.

And just as quickly, it was done.

He sagged back, drained, exhausted. It had worked, the greatest magic of his life, and it had worked. He felt exhilarated. It had worked!

Harlmut visited the Temple of Ela that night.

Haltengabben came out to see him at once. “Regent,” she said, sounding surprised, “what brings you here at this hour?”

“I need someone to send a message to Drachenward,” he said bluntly.

“And you want me to go?” she laughed. “How odd.”

“I know you have ways of getting messages to other temples,” Harlmut said, “and this one you may find of interest, since it affects you, too.”

“How so?”

“Captain Evann rescued Orin Hawk from the Hag’s clutches. They’re both in the castle.”

“How … daring of him. And what of Bowspear?”

He shrugged. “Missing … gone … and good riddance!”

She chuckled. “It seems your plans have worked admirably. You have a prisoner—”

“Guest, rather,” Harlmut said quickly. No sense using such provocative language if it could be avoided.

“Guest, then. And your only rival has mysteriously vanished. Why, if I were of a more suspicious nature, I might think you had done away with him.”

Harlmut snorted. She was baiting him.

He said, “We will return Hawk to Drachenward. We would like to invite an ambassador from their king to visit us to verify the truth of our claims. In return, we want Drachenward to intercede on King Graben’s behalf with the merchants of Müden. It is, I think, a reasonable request, given the immense favor we have done them in rescuing Hawk.”

Haltengabben inclined her head. “Very well. And I would like to meet this Orin Hawk.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Harlmut said, “after the ambassador has arrived.”

Guard duty at Castle Graben offered a life of tedious repetition, exactly as Mikkan wanted.

This late in life, he enjoyed the pleasures of routine, knowing exactly what he had to do each day, exactly when to do it, and exactly how much it paid. At sixty-two, he no longer felt the urge to fight and wallow in blood and conquest. He’d had enough of that in his boisterous youth at sea as a raider, and still more of it in his long but undistinguished career as an officer, which had ended in a second mate’s berth. The year he’d lost two fingers off his left hand to a heavily armed Müden ship, he decided to retire from the sea. He could still hold a sword, aye, but he couldn’t do any of the shipboard tasks even an officer needed to be able to perform. So he had settled into semi-retirement as a castle guard. And why not? It paid well enough, gave him a post deserving of respect, and allowed him to keep serving the king.

His duties normally took him completely through the castle three times a night. First, he circled the high outer walls on the ramparts, noting that the four sentries on duty were all awake and alert, then went down and around the inner courtyards, then inside the castle itself.

As always, everything seemed unremarkable. As always, not a tapestry, not a table, not a chair was out of place. Mikkan sighed with contentment. Yes, he liked his life as a guard.

He rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a man. It was that stranger, Orin Hawk, whom Captain Evann had brought back. What was he doing out of his room, in this part of the castle, at this hour? It had to be treachery of some kind. Never trust a Drachenwarder, that’s what his pa always used to say.

“Here now,” he began, drawing his sword. “What are you doing here?”

In reply, Hawk leapt forward, one hand closing around Mikkan’s throat, forcing him back against the wall with a thump. Choking, trying to wrench himself free, Mikkan dropped his sword and grabbed Hawk’s hand.

Skin and flesh sloughed off under his fingers like overcooked meat from a bone. Horrified, strangling, Mikkan gazed in horror at the bare bones of a skeletal arm now strangling him. Hawk tightened his grip. Mikkan felt as though his lungs would burst. He had to draw a breath. He had to free himself somehow.

His only hope lay in the knife at his belt. His vision was already growing dark around the edges. He didn’t have much time left.

His fumbling fingers found the knife’s hilt. Drawing it, he plunged it deep into Hawk’s belly, working the blade up and into the man’s chest, aiming for the heart. With satisfaction, Mikkan felt the blade slide across bones. That should do it, he thought, trying to push free with the last of his strength.

“You can’t kill me that way,” Hawk said, grinning down at him. “I’m already dead, you see.”

That grinning death mask was the last think Mikkan saw before darkness took him.